


the way i tend to be

by nightswatch



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightswatch/pseuds/nightswatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It wasn’t a big deal.” He said it like he dragged drunken idiots home every day, like it was something that everyone would have done. Which it most certainly wasn’t. “But I appreciate that you came here to say thank you,” he said, smiling, “and maybe you’re sober enough to tell me your name today?”</p><p>“And maybe I’m sober enough to remember yours,” Grantaire replied and held out his hand for him to shake. “I’m Grantaire.”</p><p>“Combeferre,” he said and shook his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the way i tend to be

Grantaire liked drawing in the library. He didn’t even know why he went there anymore, the lighting wasn’t that great, he couldn’t even bring food, and the library never changed. It was more of a habit, really. He drew the people there. The people were never the same, although some he’d seen and also drawn many, many times.

There was a skinny guy who always sat in the same spot by the window, he only came to read, braided his hair as he did, his emotions always written plainly across his face. Grantaire drew him once, handed him the picture afterwards with an apologetic smile that said something like _I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help myself_.

And there was a guy who was quite obviously only there to stare at a girl who came to the library every day to do her homework. Grantaire knew her, not well, but she was one of the few who had approached him to ask if he would draw them. He watched the guy sometimes, wondering when he’d make up his mind and just talk to her.

Grantaire could relate, though. Because there was also a reason he came to the library at the same time each Monday. It was a group of guys, always the three of them, probably some kind of study group, except they usually only studied for about five minutes until they broke out into a heated, but whispered discussion about whatever the upsetting issue of the day might be. Grantaire listened to them and drew as he did, he didn’t agree with their opinions, and he didn’t care about them either, but he liked that they cared enough to risk getting thrown out of the library.

He wanted to chip in. Often. He never did. It was none of his business, but he was sure they’d noticed him one time or another. One time he couldn’t help but laugh out loud at one of the arguments of the tall, blond one who looked like a god but definitely had no idea that he did. He’d glared at him then, nostrils flared, expression disapproving.

Grantaire had only shrugged and turned back to his drawing.

They were there again today, talking about some protest, voices hushed, but Grantaire could hear every word, he was only one table away. Today he didn’t feel much like listening, maybe he was just in a bad mood, maybe he’d lost all faith in humanity. Again. Anyway, he picked up his drawings, not paying much attention, and walked past their table.

And obviously he’d lost the ability to walk straight even when he was completely sober. It was a rare gift how he always kept tripping over things, usually when he’d had a few drinks, whether it was his own feet or other people’s bags. The latter didn’t send him flying to the ground, but when he stumbled his drawings did.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” one of the guys – presumably the owner of the bad he’d just tripped over – said and jumped up to help Grantaire gather his drawings.

“It’s fine,” Grantaire mumbled, “maybe I should pay more attention to where I’m walking.”

The guy pushed his glassed up his nose and grinned. “Those are really good,” he said, before he handed them back to Grantaire.

Grantaire scratched his head. “They’re really not. But thanks. I mean… yeah. Sorry.” He faintly noticed that the other two were watching them, so he quickly scrambled to his feet and fled without saying another word.

Grantaire avoided the library on Mondays from then on, but it wasn’t the last time he saw the guy with the glasses.

 

In retrospect, Grantaire would be very happy to just forget their next encounter. He had decided to go out drinking and, since none of his friends had been in the mood to come along, because they all had classes they didn’t want to miss the next morning, he’d taken off on his own.

Which was, as it turned out, a horrible mistake.

Because when you’re out on your own you also have to get home on your own, which is fucking hard when you’re totally smashed. So instead of going home, Grantaire sat down on some bench somewhere between the pub he’d been to and his prison-cell-sized flat half a mile away. Sitting was nice, but the world wouldn’t stop spinning, so he closed his eyes, which actually helped a little, at least with the spinning. But once that wasn’t an issue anymore, Grantaire suddenly had time to notice how nauseous he actually felt. He groaned.

“Hey man, are you alright?” someone asked, concern plain in their voice.

Grantaire didn’t answer, too much effort, and he was fine, obviously, he was still sitting up straight. But not answering apparently hadn’t been a good idea, because a few seconds later someone touched his arm. His eyes fluttered open at that.

He knew that guy. “Aren’t you the guy with the glasses?” Except that he wasn’t wearing glasses today, but Grantaire’s drunken mind didn’t care too much about that, it was definitely him.

The guy snorted. “I guess. And you’re the guy with the drawings.”

“Hm, ‘s me.” Grantaire nodded, but it only made him feel dizzy, so he buried his head in his hands.

“No, no, hey, don’t fall asleep, okay? It’s really cold, don’t you have a jacket?” His hand was on Grantaire’s shoulder now, warm and gentle. Yet again, Grantaire didn’t manage to answer and he couldn’t shake his head either because that would just make him feel even more nauseous. “Where do you live?” he asked, fingers squeezing Grantaire’s shoulder.

Grantaire lifted one hand to point in the general direction of where his flat was.

“Okay,” the guy said, a little exasperated. “Well, I’m not going to leave you here, so I hope you can remember the way.” And with that he gripped Grantaire by the arm and yanked him off the bench, and Grantaire slumped against him, too exhausted to even give standing up straight a try.

He wanted to ask why he was doing this, why he would take a stranger home, he didn’t know him, he didn’t owe him anything. All he managed was to mumble something into the guy’s shirt, not even sure what exactly he was trying to say.

“What’s your name?”

“Name’s ‘Aire,” he muttered.

“I’m Combeferre. But I doubt you’ll remember that tomorrow morning.”

“I will,” Grantaire promised. He wouldn’t.

Combeferre successfully dragged him to his flat, Grantaire giving directions as best as he could, sometimes pointing, sometimes muttering.  Combeferre’s arm was strong and steady around his back the whole time, guiding him down the dark streets. He shrugged off his jacket when Grantaire shivered at his side and draped it around his shoulders and then urged him onwards.

When Grantaire tried to fumble his key into the lock, Combeferre took it from him and unlocked the door for him and Grantaire stumbled against him again. Combeferre held him there for a second, with Grantaire’s face buried against his neck, rubbing small circles on his back, and then pushed him across the threshold.

Grantaire didn’t remember how he’d got from the door to his bed the next morning, remembered someone smiling down at him, remembered that he’d promised he wouldn’t forget his name. But he had. There was a glass of water next to his bed, but that was the only sign that someone else but him had been here last night. There was no note, no nothing.

But at least he knew where he’d have to go to find him.

 

“I had a feeling I’d see you again.” He was wearing the same jacket that Grantaire remembered him draping around his shoulders only a few days ago. His friends lingered, looking at them curiously. “Go ahead, I’ll meet you at the café,” he said.

One of them, the cheerful one who seemed to have a smile plastered to his face 24/7 winked at them, before his other friend rolled his eyes and dragged him down the path and away from them.

“I wanted to say thank you,” Grantaire said as soon as they were out of sight.

“It wasn’t a big deal.” He said it like he dragged drunken idiots home every day, like it was something that everyone would have done. Which it most certainly wasn’t. “But I appreciate that you came here to say thank you,” he said, smiling, “and maybe you’re sober enough to tell me your name today?”

“And maybe I’m sober enough to remember yours,” Grantaire replied and held out his hand for him to shake. “I’m Grantaire.”

“Combeferre,” he said and shook his hand.

Grantaire held on to his hand a little longer than necessary, but eventually snapped out of it and firmly buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Well, I don’t want to… your friends are waiting.”

“Right, I assume they are.” He smiled down at him again, but there was an edge to it. “Take care of yourself, Grantaire.”

“Always do,” Grantaire said lightly and turned to leave. “I’ll see you around,” he called over his shoulder, forcing himself not to turn around.

 

It wasn’t exactly hard to find Combeferre, but Grantaire didn’t even have to look for him. They just kept bumping into each other. Sometimes quite literally.

Grantaire was very much in need of a bucket full of coffee before his lecture, so he decided to get some of the atrocious coffee at the café closest to campus where his friend Eponine worked. It was noon already, and most people were here to have lunch, not to conjure a caffeine-induced coma.

He left with what wasn’t exactly the bucket he’d been dreaming of, but at least the coffee was strong and only half as atrocious as he remembered it to be.

And yes, it was always a bad idea to walk in one direction and to look in another, and he should know that by now, but as it happens, Grantaire didn’t exactly learn from his past mistakes and promptly ran into someone the second he stepped out of the café.

“Ah shit, I’m really sorry,” Grantaire muttered, silently mourning the coffee he’d called his own for the better part of a minute, but then looked up to find a familiar face frowning down at him, but the frown turned into a smile, then a laugh.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre said, “What a nice surprise.”

“Coffee stains on your jacket are a nice surprise?” Grantaire asked, regarding the mess he’d made.

Combeferre chuckled. “Well, it depends on how you interpret the situation. I guess that was the revenge for tripping you with my bag.”

“Oh right, I once nearly fell flat on my face right in front of you, thanks for reminding me.” He didn’t actually manage to sound genuinely grumpy because Combeferre laughed again and something fluttered low in his stomach and- Oh, for god’s sake no, that so wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be happening.

He apologised again, but Combeferre assured him that he’d been on his way home anyway, and then Grantaire took off quickly, not bothering to buy more coffee. He was awake. More than that, his mind was working overtime.

Combeferre didn’t even remotely resemble anyone Grantaire would have thought he’d find himself attracted to, not in a billion years, not ever, but here he was, smiling like an idiot – like the idiot he was – every time he even so much as thought about Combeferre.

He tried to forget about it.

He started to paint in the early hours of the morning.

He went out drinking with his friends.

His thoughts always wandered back to Combeferre.

It was ridiculous, and terribly stupid, really. Someone like Combeferre would never want to be with someone like Grantaire. There was just no way that was going to happen. Ever.

And still, they kept bumping into each other.

At some point he got to know his friends and everything went downhill from then on. Well, not exactly _downhill,_ but he started spending so much time with them and Combeferre was always there, smiled at him when Grantaire argued with Enjolras, walked beside them together with Courfeyrac, both of them laughing, when they got thrown out of the library because their discussion had got a little out of hand, was there when Grantaire got drunk with Bahorel and was also there to take him home and tuck him into bed, like he’d done before.

It’s didn’t take long until Grantaire knew exactly when Combeferre would be waiting outside one of his classrooms to hand him a cup of coffee. To make up for the one he’d spilt, he kept saying, even though Grantaire always reminded him that it hadn’t technically been his fault. They’d talk about their days and the weather and their classes and nothing in particular, but Grantaire found that he was oddly disappointed if Combeferre failed to show up.

And Grantaire thought he could live with it, having him around, but when their hands brushed he wanted to hold it and when Combeferre touched him, even if only fleetingly, he didn’t want him to stop.

 

There was a knock on his door. Grantaire wasn’t sure what time it was, or what day, for that matter, and he’d nearly decided on not answering, because his bed was just way too comfortable, when there was another knock. And another.

Rain was tapping against his window and it was getting dark. He must have slept all day. Grantaire groaned and climbed out of bed, almost tripped over a pair of shoes on the way to the door, but managed to open it without any further accidents and found a very worried looking Combeferre.

“’Ferre, what’s up?” Grantaire leant his head against the doorframe, not entirely awake just yet. The night before had been rough, to say the least.

Combeferre took a deep breath. “I was just… worried about you. But you’re-” He stopped mid-sentence and grabbed Grantaire’s arm, which was covered in paint, dark colours, resembling his mood.

And at first Grantaire didn’t understand why Combeferre looked so pale all of a sudden, until he realised that it looked like his arm was caked in dried blood. “It’s just paint,” he said quickly and Combeferre relaxed visibly.

He didn’t let go of his arm, though. “Is everything okay?”

“Hm, I suppose. I’m just a little fucked up sometimes, but what else is new,” Grantaire mumbled and tugged his arm out of Combeferre’s grasp. “You should go, I’m probably not the best company right now.”

Combeferre’s smooth expression crumbled and he almost looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”

“Believe me, you don’t want to be here.” He was a mess, a mess covered in paint, with a horrible hangover that he didn’t owe to alcohol alone, a mess with nothing to give and nothing to say. He just wanted to curl up in his bed, he wanted the world to forget about him for a while.

Combeferre frowned and took a step towards him. “I don’t think it’s up to you to decide where I want to be, Grantaire.”

Grantaire sighed. The way Combeferre said his name did things to him that he didn’t even want to admit to himself, he did admit defeat, however, and stepped aside so Combeferre could enter.

Combeferre didn’t ask what was wrong, not a single time, it was like he knew exactly what was wrong, like he didn’t even have to ask, like he’d _seen_ Grantaire, seen him all these months and had never once said a word.

Combeferre pushed him straight to his bedroom and Grantaire didn’t even have it in him to make some inappropriate joke, only went willingly and smiled when Combeferre sat down next to him, and didn’t even protest when Grantaire crawled into his lap, where he eventually fell asleep, head resting against Combeferre’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

When he woke again it was still dark and it was still raining and he still felt like shit, but he was also warm and Combeferre was holding him just a touch too tightly as if he would vanish into thin air at any second if he didn’t. Grantaire tried to move as little as possible, until he noticed that Combeferre was, in fact, wide awake.

“When was the last time you ate?” His tone was level, casual, but didn’t hide the underlying concern.

“Hm, last night,” he muttered into Combeferre’s shirt, which he gripped tightly, when Combeferre tried to move. “Stay.”

“I’ll just go to your kitchen for a couple of minutes, okay?”

Grantaire mumbled his agreement and moved off him, turned the lights on and waited patiently for him to return, which he did, as promised, a couple of minutes later, with a glass of water and a sandwich for Grantaire. He was surprised that he’d even had bread.

“Why do you keep doing this?” Grantaire asked later, eyes fixed at the ceiling. He didn’t feel like he needed to explain, especially because it was the middle of the night and Combeferre was sitting on his bed. He was just _there_ , as always.

Combeferre didn’t answer for a while, then he took his hand. “Because I care about you.”

 

“There you are.”

Grantaire nearly dropped the book he’d just been inspecting. He turned to look at Combeferre, his heart beating fast. He hadn’t seen him in a while, had tried to mind his own business, because he’d felt incredibly awkward about pretty much _everything_.

“Feeling better?” Combeferre asked and leaned against one of the shelves.

“Yeah… sorry about that,” Grantaire mumbled, pretending that he was really interested in the books in front of him.

 Combeferre inched closer. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me for two weeks?”

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” Grantaire protested and finally looked at him again. His hair was unusually tousled and Grantaire had to fight the urge to smooth it down. Or to just grab him and kiss him and tousle his hair even more. He swallowed. “I was just… busy.”

“Busy,” Combeferre repeated. “Too busy to send texts and, I don’t know, let me know you’re still alive?”

Grantaire still didn’t know why Combeferre even bothered, he clearly wasn’t worth all this hassle. He sighed. “Well, you did see me a couple of times, it’s not like-”

“You ran away like I had the plague every single time,” Combeferre interrupted him dryly. “Is it because of what I said?”

Grantaire frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You know, when I said I cared about you,” Combeferre mumbled.

“Oh,” was all Grantaire could manage, just now realising what he’d _meant_ by that. He grabbed Combeferre by his scarf then and pulled him down, and for god’s sake, no one had ever kissed him like that.

Grantaire still had Combeferre’s scarf in one hand, the other one was busy tugging at Combeferre’s hair, trying to get even closer and Combeferre’s hand had someone ended up in the back pocket of his jeans, when he heard someone clear their throat right behind them.

It was Javert, the librarian, looking at them like they’d just smeared chocolate all over his precious books or something equally unspeakable.

“We’re going,” Grantaire said immediately before he could even open his mouth. He took Combeferre by the hand and dragged him off, through rows of bookshelves, back to a quiet corner, where Javert would probably find them in approximately ten minutes, but Grantaire would make them count.

They passed the guy who apparently still hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to his girl and was still watching her from afar. At least Grantaire was done watching from afar. He pushed Combeferre against one of the shelves and he let out a breathless huff when Grantaire started kissing up his neck and eventually turned back to kissing his mouth.

He still hadn’t quite processed how exactly he’d ended up here, and didn’t have time to either, he was much too occupied with Combeferre’s lip and his hands, which now firmly gripped his hips to flip them around and now it was Grantaire who was being pushed against the shelves, Combeferre’s leg pushing between his thighs, and Grantaire moaned, the fact that they were still in the library completely forgotten.

“Shh,” Combeferre whispered and pressed one finger against Grantaire’s lips to shut him up. Grantaire looked at him and licked over Combeferre’s finger, never breaking eye contact, all too satisfied with how Combeferre’s breath hitched. “Maybe we should leave.”

Grantaire nodded and led him outside, past a gloomily staring Javert, whom he grinned at blissfully.

  

They weren’t perfect.

Grantaire wasn’t perfect and, in a surprising turn of events, Grantaire found out that Combeferre wasn’t perfect either.

But that was alright. More than alright. Combeferre was stillness, silence, steadiness. And when the waves came crashing and tried to pull him down, Combeferre was the anchor that kept him at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Combeferre/Grantaire week on tumblr  
> but, as always, this is also for Kerry


End file.
